look like sunshine," Henry said.

The doctor talked to me quite frankly.

"His heart is dangerously weak," he said.

"Have you told him?" I asked.

"I had to, because the heart being in that condition he must be
careful."

"Did he understand _really_?"

"Oh, yes. He said he quite understood."

Yet a few minutes later when I saw Henry, and begged him to remember
what the doctor had said about his heart, he exclaimed: "Fiddle! It's
not my heart at all! It's my _breath_!" (Oh the ignorance of great men
about themselves!)

"I also told him," the Wolverhampton doctor went on, "that he must not
work so hard in future."

I said: "He will, though,--and he's stronger than any one."

Then I went round to the hotel.

I found him sitting up in bed, drinking his coffee.

He looked like some beautiful gray tree that I have seen in Savannah.
His old dressing-gown hung about his frail yet majestic figure like some
mysterious gray drapery.

We were both very much moved, and said little.

"I'm glad you've come. Two Queens have been kind to me this morning.
Queen Alexandra telegraphed to say how sorry she was I was ill, and now
you--"

He showed me the Queen's gracious message.

I told him he looked thin and ill, but _rested_.

"Rested! I should think so. I have plenty of time to rest. They tell me
I shall be here eight weeks. Of course I sha'n't, but still--It was that
rug in front of the door. I tripped over it. A commercial traveler
picked me up--a kind fellow, but d--n him, he wouldn't leave me
afterwards--wanted to talk to me all night."

I remembered his having said this, when I was told by his servant,
Walter Collinson, that on the night of his death at Bradford, he
stumbled over the rug when he walked into the hotel corridor.

We fell to talking about work. He said he hoped that I had a good
manager ... agreed very heartily with me about Frohman, saying he was
always so fair--more than fair.

"What a wonderful life you've had, haven't you?" I exclaimed, thinking
of it all in a flash.

"Oh, yes," he said quietly ... "a wonderful life--of work."

"And there's nothing better, after all, is there?"

"Nothing."

"What have you got out of it all.... You and I are 'getting on,' as
they say. Do you ever think, as I do sometimes, what you have got out of
life?"

"What have I got out of it?" said Henry, stroking his chin and smiling
slightly. "Let me see.... Well, a good cigar, a good glass of wine--good